


Not What You Expected

by syredronning



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Age Play, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-02
Updated: 2011-06-02
Packaged: 2017-10-20 00:57:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/207108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syredronning/pseuds/syredronning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some games are far more than they appear to be on first glance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not What You Expected

**Author's Note:**

> For cupidandpsycho who asked for Pike/Kirk, D/s in a meme. Thanks to betalil for the beta! All remaining errors are mine.

It's a dare, of course. That's how we both work, you and I.

I say you wouldn't know how to submit for a weekend to save your life.

You say that I just don't push the right buttons, but your grin shows that you believe there are no right buttons to begin with.

I know you so well, Jim. You should be fucking scared.

But of course you aren't.

*

I'm not surprised you arrive late, in that passive-aggressive way that only raises the dare. Maybe you expect whips and chains, but that's not the way to your submission.

Instead, I let you settle in, have a beer… before I pull you close and ask you to call me 'dad' for the duration of the weekend.

You hate me a little right now, in a surprised spike of anger. And underneath that anger, you're more frightened than you let on.

There's a colorful tee and a pair of Jeans shorts and sneakers waiting for you, before we go fishing together at a nearby creek.

You like it more than you'll admit.

*

At the diner, I'm the one to place the orders, something from the kids menu for you, a burger for me. Under the critical gaze of the waitress, your face reddens but there are none of your typical flippant remarks.

With our fingers, we snip the little plastic model car that comes with your menu back and forth over the table between us, salt and pepper the silent guardians of our respective goals.

You laugh loud enough that some people turn their head. It makes you look ten years younger.

You don't call me dad.

*

The car's going fast on the road to the amusement park. There's a padd loaded with games from fifteen years ago, Coke and chocolate cookies as supplies. There's music in the radio, your favorite kind, so loud that the speakers might die any second.

You turn quieter with every mile.

"What's the matter?" I ask, and finally pull over.

We look at each other in the climate-controlled car, while outside the afternoon sun bakes the dusty shoulder. Your mouth is tight but your eyes are wide and vulnerable.

"You win, alright? Let's go home. I'm not cut out for this."

"Oh yes?" I dare.

"Fuck yes." You harshly turn off the music. "What a fucking farce."

"It's not a farce when it works."

"It's not fair," you say sharply. "It's not fair," you repeat, more subdued, your eyes straying away. "You don't know what you're playing with."

"I know exactly what I’m doing," I say with all the authority and weight I can muster. "I've set out to give you everything I can over the weekend. Everything you didn't have back then."

"I'm not that kid anymore," you say harshly, before you curl your fists, knowing that this very line proves different.

"No, you aren't. But there's still some of that kid left." I catch your hand, lace our fingers. "And I'd like to take him out to a ball game. The dare doesn't matter, this isn't about winning. It's about me wanting to give you something that I think only I can."

"I hate pity." Your voice is quiet, strangled.

"I'd never pity you, and you know that." I pull you close. "Love you, Jim," I whisper in your ear, and you shudder and break down.

 _He hated everything about me, dad._

We spend an awesome day together.

*

It's the second day, after watching old movies and working on a little spaceship model. I lazily sit on the couch, taking a break and sipping the coffee you've made for me, while you’re still painting white dots on the hull.

You take me by surprise when you suddenly get up and walk over to me, kneeling down.

"Have I been a good boy, dad?" you ask, and I nod and smile. "A very good boy." I pat your face, then put away the cup because something big is up.

"Would you… spank me anyway?" you say, your gaze doing all the pleading that your voice can't. "Because I've been good and I'd like it?"

My throat turns dry; I know that you've never let anyone do that again after you grew up enough to fight back. "I could do that – if that's what you want."

"Yes." You smile.

*

You kneel over me on the couch, hands to the right, feet to the left of my legs. You want my stronger hand, but I start slowly, too much in awe of your courage and your never-ending willingness to leap. My hand falls gently at first while I whisper in your ear, telling you all the things I love about you, all the reasons why I'm proud to be allowed into your life.

You lean into my slaps with a sigh, and I grow bolder.

When you start to cry, my hand is dark red and hurts like hell, but your sobs hurt me more because I know where they come from. If the bastard was still alive, he'd have to answer me. Now all I can do is steal territory from the dragons.

"Please," you beg and move, rubbing your hard cock against my upper thigh. I pull you up and we end on the couch together, my lips on yours, our joined hands jerking each other off as I just can't fuck you, not tonight.

"Love you, Chris. Thank you so much," you whisper when we're curled in the aftermath, sweaty and sticky, and I'm damn glad you don't say 'dad'.

I much prefer being your lover.


End file.
